


Mrs. Hudson Always Knew

by SherlockMalfoy



Series: Sherlock!Wizardverse Drabbles - General [36]
Category: Harry Potter (just a bare smidge), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, First Meeting, Gen, Sherlock Is A Wizard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 22:06:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5682490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockMalfoy/pseuds/SherlockMalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mrs. Hudson first met Sherlock Holmes, she didn't realize how important he would become to her. Nor she to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mrs. Hudson Always Knew

**Author's Note:**

> I'm only just now realizing I'd never posted this here. So, here you go!

She knew.

Of course she knew. How could she not notice?

He’d been a red head back then, though. So scrawny and ridiculous in his over-sized clothes and threadbare shoes. Like he’d been traveling for miles and hadn’t stopped to have a proper meal or rest.

Then again, a lot of people looked that way back then. It was the “in” thing at the time. And she couldn’t say she hadn’t had her own bit of rebellious fun.

They’d traveled the rest of the way together – two Brits lost across the pond trying to find their way to Woodstock. He’d been so sweet, so kind and caring. Protective, even, though they’d only just met.

He’d offered to share his tent with her. She hadn’t thought how odd they looked at the time. Her being 32 and him being a fresh faced 20 or so himself. He hadn’t really wanted to go to the free love music fest. He’d only been heading in that direction already on his own whim, and she’d convinced him to join her that night they huddled together under the bridge where they’d met. Hitchhiking their way to New York.

She should have known it, then, when she’d met Richard – or Dicky as he’d been called back then – that the man would be trouble. Sherlock even told her so. Had warned her off him, but she couldn’t help it. He was brilliant, Dicky Hudson. Involved in politics, protesting to set things right.

Years later, when their marriage was on the rocks and he’d been caught cheating on her it was too late to do anything about it. Other than a divorce. But oh… Richard Hudson wouldn’t have it. His woman standing up to him the way she did. Demanding him to leave his mistress, even after he’d thought he’d beat her into silence and had her go back to her kitchen.

And then the mistress turned up dead. And she knew who’d done it. But Richard Hudson was a respectable man in the community. A trusted friend of the police commissioner. A valuable member of many public boards. And a brilliant solicitor. He knew the people to cover things up, and he knew the loopholes in the law to keep himself free as a bird.

That was, until one of his clients turned up dead as well. A British man, a bright young man, named Victor Trevor. It was a fire, they’d said. But her husband thought he knew better. Wouldn’t believe it (because he, too, was profiting from the ill gotten gains of Mr. Trevor) and swore it must have been a revenge killing. He’d caught her listening in, one night, and nearly beat her to death to ensure her silence.

She’d slipped away in the early hours of the morning, unable to take any more of old Mr. Hudson’s abuse and managed to get herself into a clinic a few towns over. Get her fractured ribs looked at and her broken arm set. Her face stitched up and her pain managed.

When the paperwork came, she hadn’t wanted to fill it out. Hadn’t wanted to hand over her information. Her ID and her life. She tried to claim she was homeless. Anything was better than going back to Richard. But she’d made the mistake of using her real name when she came in. She’d been in such a state, she hadn’t thought this far ahead. She didn’t know what to do-

Then a hand was placed on her arm. The one not broken. Gentle, but firm. At first she thought it was an orderly, but then when she looked up and saw that lean face, framed by black curls rather than red, mud crusted locks, she wanted to burst into tears. And all he’d said to her were the words, “I’ll take care of you Martha.”

And he had. He had taken care of her. He’d hidden her away, protected her and let her heal without a word about what had been done to her. He offered to help her get out of the country after she’d expressed a desire to see the old country again. And for a short time she forgot she was old and worn and he was still so young and thin and ragged (though this time much cleaner). Once she was well enough to travel, at least a long flight back to England, he had her whisked away. She never questioned it. Had refused to believe that this man was the same man she’d met nearly 30 years ago – barely past 20 then and barely near 30 now – until she’d been settled into a nice flat in London. Tucked away where Richard Hudson could never reach her. Though sometimes, in her letterbox, an envelope would appear. Clippings and articles of her husband from the local papers in her former town. Each one telling of new evidence, new witnesses that suddenly turned up when the case against him had dried up and run cold. Alighting the fires under the newer, more determined police that had replaced those who’d been her husband’s inner circle.

At last, she’d received news that after nearly 15 years Richard Hudson’s appeals had ended. And he would be unable to harm anyone again. His execution had seen to that.

Days later she answered her door. And there he stood. Clean and young and pale and full of life. Long limbs and voice like caramel. Just as she’d always remembered. Just as he’d always been. And he acted, as he had that single time since Woodstock, like he hardly knew her. Which, in all honesty, was the truth. And as he looked around the flats she was sure he’d set up for her in Baker Street from the start, inspecting them with the intent of moving in himself, she said not a word about how unchanged he had been. At how she’d grown old and weary in his long absence and how he remained untouched by time.

She’d already come to the conclusion, after settling into her rooms here, that he was something else. Something special and wonderful. Had thought of him, briefly, as her guardian angel but no he was no such thing. Not if the clippings of her husband’s case were to be believed. But he was more than human nonetheless. Yet he did not point it out. So neither did she.

She only smiled and showed him the flats. Offered him tea or cake or coffee as a kind host should. And then when he decided he’d move in straight away she’d told him she’d cut the rent down for him – just a bit mind because she still had bills to pay – because he’d had what she called an honest face.

But they both knew why. He’d helped her in her time of need more than once. And though he’d warned her once against Dicky Hudson, he did not hold it against her. She’d been in love, and he could not fathom such a thing, so he could not condemn her for following her illogical, human heart.

So she let him boss her about a bit, and she pushed back to remind him she wasn’t his housekeeper. She was his landlady. And in her old age he looked after her. Protected her when he could. Not because that’s what people were supposed to do, as John had often harped. But because he’d promised her he would. She had been a friend to him when he had none. She had joked and laughed with him under a bridge when others drove right past without a second glance.

She’d put up with his black moods as they walked and hitched their way to New York. And she’d taught him to cook from an arm chair with one arm in a sling and her ribs taped up.

And when her Baker Street boys left her for a while (after she’d quietly noticed Sherlock putting on a bit of a tire around the middle) he still made sure to text her under the pretense that clients had not come by. That Molly had been looking after the flat. That some of his long term experiments hadn’t gone off yet. But she knew he was just worried. Wanted to make sure the old girl was alright without him. When they’d come back, with two little babes swaddled in their arms, her little suspicions had been confirmed. The tire was gone and now cribs and toys and nappies were strewn about. A child on one hip as he’d pace around the flat trying to sort out another case of murder on the West End. Or string together a chain of unexplained burglaries while John was changing nappies and blogging at the same time.

And when the babes were older, old enough to speak and babble on their own. She could see John in their faces and Sherlock in their brilliance. And she knew then her Sherlock, her avenging angel, was more than even she had believed him to be.

After her death, when the flats had passed on to the little family of 221B, and the will had been read and her final wishes carried out, there came a letter.

A letter for Sherlock Holmes from Martha Hudson.

And all it read, in her flowery handwriting on the paper stamped with the hospital letter head (meaning she’d written it sometime in her final days) had been thus:

 _“Sherlock,_ **I know you’re a wizard** _. Why couldn’t you have done a bit more about the damp in the basement? How in your giant brain did you think I wouldn’t remember the red headed hippie who let me have his tent at Woodstock in ‘69 because I’d foolishly cut mine up to make a new dress? Honestly. If you hadn’t brought John home I’d be considerably worried about how you’d get on without me.”_

And then, at the very bottom, in nearly illegible letters that had been gone over multiple times, each time her hand must have shaken just a bit more – were two simple words.

**_"Thank you.”_ **


End file.
